


Best I Have

by TheRoarOfAtlas



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Actual Violent Wrestling, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, At Least Once More Apparently, How Many Times Must I Rewrite Wrestlemania 32, Hurt/Comfort, Kayfabe Divergence, M/M, The Giving Of Weapons, The Shield Breakup, Way Too Much Plot With Some Smut, Wrestle AU: Two-Man Shield, Wrestlemania 32, ambreigns - Freeform, good things from bad, more what-ifs, plot with some porn, thirst party saturday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRoarOfAtlas/pseuds/TheRoarOfAtlas
Summary: [Alternate Universe where Roman was never in The Shield]Dean Ambrose, Lunatic Fringe, is gifted a unique weapon from a legend of the business a few weeks prior to his No-Holds-Barred Street Fight with Brock Lesnar.[x-posted to Tumblr]Enjoy!





	Best I Have

“Mr. Ambrose!”

 

Dean grunted, a bit startled and pausing at the sound of his name. “Yeah?”

 

The man who had spoken looked familiar, but Dean couldn’t place him. _More shit rattled free up top, I guess_. On the older side, round face. He seemed good-natured enough. Dean shook his hand, still trying to figure out who this guy was. “Sika Reigns.” The man prompted after a minute or two of Dean studying him.

 

“Oh!” Dean felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry sir, I’m used to all the--” He gestured around his head, indicating where Sika’s thick black hair once was.

 

Sika chuckled ruefully. “You and me both, kid. Listen, my hairline isn’t important. I heard you’re planning on facing Brock soon, and that a few of the legends have given you their blessing.” Sika cleared his throat. “Maybe a few implements, as well.”

 

_Oh_. “Listen, if you’re here from Heyman, I ain't interested in his terms and I told him that from the get-go.” Dean bristled, but the older man was already shaking his head.

 

“Hell no, calm down. I’d like to offer you my son.”

 

“You…what? Your…okay, I’m a little confused here man.” Dean stammered. _I didn’t think dads still tried to pawn their kids off like this_. “I mean, Funk gave me a chainsaw and Foley gave me Barbie. _Those_ are weapons. No offense, but what am I supposed to do with your _son?_ Who even is…does he work in the indies or something?”

 

“Roman?” Mr. Reigns called.

 

Dean heard footsteps behind him and he immediately turned around, fists raised. _Oh._ _ **Oh**_ _._ Roman wasn’t as tall as him but he was broader. Dean thought momentarily that he had short, slicked-back hair, but upon further inspection he realized Roman’s hair was pulled back into a bun. The tight smile that he was given contrasted sharply with the intimidating black gear the other man was wearing. _Is that a cattle prod?!_

 

“We’ve already spoken about your… _situation_ , and we believe this is an excellent strategy. He’s an unknown factor, he’s strong, capable and, most importantly, he’s the best weapon I can offer you.” Sika sounded proud enough to burst. It made Dean almost queasy with jealousy. “Terry and Mick mean well, they always have. But I’m fairly confident Lesnar will have ample warnings of your little red wagon.”

 

“And where the _hell_ am I supposed to stash him?” Dean asked, still reeling from the whole interaction. “He’s a little bigger than a chainsaw, man!”

 

“Underneath the ring, of course.” Sika shrugged. “Where else?”

 

_Where else?_ Dean had to agree with that, this guy was obviously going to stick out a bit in any crowd. _Underneath the ring_. “And what is _your_ input on this…this weird ass plan?” Dean demanded of Roman, already tired of the ‘strong silent’ routine.

 

Roman inclined his head. “I’m here to help.”

 

…

 

Seth had been softer when they’d started out. A little brother, to be protected until he proved himself. Dean still regretted all the times he’d defended Seth. He should have let him take the hits, should have let him suffer a little more. Maybe then he wouldn’t have turned on Dean. Maybe then he would have understood how much Dean did for him.

 

Dean had been alone for the first time in _years_ that night, laying in the middle of the ring after being handed his ass on a silver platter by Rollins and his new lackeys. Ambrose's vest and body were torn to pieces, the metaphor not lost on him in the slightest while he spit up blood in the locker room shower with Seth's voice yelling  “ _crazy!_ ” on repeat in his aching head.

 

Their dynamic duo went up in flames, the Shield no more. They fought like rabid animals every opportunity they got, putting each other into the hospital on a monthly basis. It felt almost wrong to be focusing his energy on someone else, but with Rollins out injured for a _while_ , Ambrose needed new ways to try and hang on to his limited sanity.

 

So he’d picked a fight with Brock Lesnar. Not his _smartest_ move to date. Yet for some reason a lot of folks had gotten behind him. He guessed everyone must be tired of that lazy asshole storming around like he owned the place. He still hadn’t expected a _chainsaw_ from Terry, though. That was unanticipated ( _and definitely illegal, love you anyway you crazy old bastard_ ).

 

This arrangement with Roman smacked of weirdness though, and if there was one thing Dean was _all_ over it was weirdness. Roman kept to himself during their training sessions, didn’t push his boundaries and didn’t say much. He was…bland. Almost to a fault.

 

They had to at _least_ be able to work together. Dean knew that, kept reminding himself of that. Also kept reminding himself that Roman wasn’t Rollins. Sometimes he caught himself _just_ before calling Roman Seth, just before dropping an inside joke or punching his shoulder like he had with Seth. This guy wasn’t here to be his friend.

 

_Neither was Rollins_.

 

Seth and Roman were like night and day. Rollins was excitable, easily flustered and distracted. Roman was…well _steady_ was really the only word Dean could think of. Roman would wait, and wait, and _wait_. There didn’t seem to be an impatient bone in his body. Most of Dean’s training regiment was repetition, running the same pattern on the mats and pads until he could do it in his sleep. So having Roman around to bounce off of certainly made his training a hell of a lot easier.

 

Another thing Dean kept having a problem with was that this guy was here to help with _one_ fight. Roman was just an implement, a means to an end. It was weird that he was taking such an active role here, and his dad gifting him essentially as a big, blunt object was still…it sat funny with Dean.

 

_He’s the best weapon I can offer you._

 

Ambrose shook himself all over, squaring up yet again.

 

“Can I ask you something?” Roman began, lowering the pads a fraction. Dean nodded in reply. “Why Lesnar?” The larger man questioned.

 

Dean froze up for a second. A _long_ second. “Because I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

 

“Oh.” Roman got into position and Dean assumed that was the end of the questions, raising his fists. “I don’t understand how that makes you an idiot.”

 

Ambrose sighed heavily. “Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence. But the fact of the matter is that this is a fight I’m _probably_ not winnin’. It’s a time-waster, you and I both know that.”

 

“Why bother doing it then?”

 

_Because I need to do_ _ **something**_. “Boredom, I guess.” Dean shrugged, doing his best to seem flippant. _Because it’s either fight someone or tap my fingers against my knees until I wear holes in them. Because it’s either get my ass kicked or sit around_ _ **thinking**_ _. Because I’m tired, so damn tired of everything and if I start focusing on that..._ “Needed something to do while Rollins heals his knee.” And oh no, oh _no_ , that was the wrong thing to say.

 

Roman seemed confused, letting him get in a few hits before opening his mouth again. “Seth Rollins? He’s the guy that you tagged with, right? The Shield?”

 

Dean crouched, scowling. “We've been trading asswhuppings. Kane fucked up his knee though, so I have to be _patient_. I’m not gonna’ break into a hospital while he’s rehabbing. I’m not an animal.”

 

“Didn’t he put your head through-”

 

“I’m _not_ stooping to his level.” Dean snarled. “I fight in the ring or not at all.”

 

“Does it bug you that people call _you_ the crazy one?” Roman queried, his brow furrowed. “I mean I haven’t really been following your feud, I rely on Dad to keep me up to date for the most part. But…the cinderblocks?”

 

“I’ve had worse man, much worse.” Dean itched absently at his neck. “Rollins knows that. S’why he did it. Wants to see how far he can push me, I guess.”

 

“What the fuck.” Roman breathed.

 

“Dude I’ve gotten my face pulped on cinderblocks that _didn’t_ break. Trust me, the ones that break are preferable.” Dean found morbid amusement in spouting advice that no normal person would ever need. “Rollins has always been a button pusher. S’what he does. Unfortunately for him, though, I’ve learned a few things along the way.”

 

Roman cocked his head curiously, like he was actually interested. Like he _wanted_ Dean to keep talking. Dean just grinned at him, tapping the pads.

 

“Up, c’mon. This ain’t chat time, Reigns.”

 

“Oh! Sorry.” Roman straightened the pads back out, looking a little disappointed.

 

“Maybe another time, huh?” Dean suggested grudgingly after a few minutes had gone by. “Some other time. After we kill Brock.”

 

“Yeah.” Roman’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, which made Dean _very_ curious.

 

“Man I know I shouldn’t, but I gotta’ ask. Why the heck did your dad like…drop you into my lap?” Dean didn’t expect the way Roman flinched and he almost snapped Reigns’ wrist off with his next swing. “ _Shit_ , sorry. My bad.”

 

“No no, it’s fine. I…it’s a tough question to answer.” Roman said quietly. “Brock and Paul said some things about my family that they could have kept to themselves, to make a long story short.”

 

“Goddamn, those cocksuckers.” Dean snarled. “That’s as good a reason as any to get involved with him, I don’t blame you. Shit, I wish _I_ had a reason for tangling with his ass. Your family is a _legendary_ one in this business, what the fuck could they have to say about you guys?”

 

“ _More_ than enough, that’s what.” Roman’s face hardened. “So here I am, greenhorn through and through. But the only one who could step up to the plate.”

 

“Dude this is some Highlander shit, wow.” The sense of awe Dean felt was almost overwhelming. “Can I…I mean, this is gonna’ sound real weird but could I like. Teach you a few things?” He asked hesitantly. “I know you’re going to be there and it’s going to be hilarious to see the look on that pink bastard’s face when you show up, but can I maybe…I dunno’, work _with_ you or somethin’? It would just be cool to actually have a _reason_ to fight Brock.” _Instead of me doing it because I can’t handle doing nothing_.

 

“Defending my heritage and the honor of my family isn’t something _cool_ , Ambrose.” Roman seemed irritated. “This is a serious issue. People think they can say offensive shit because my dad isn’t _actively_ in the business anymore, or because my cousins do their haka, things like that. It’s not as if anything has changed when it comes to Lesnar, we’ve _all_ seen the footage of him from the Guerrero matches.” Roman’s fists tightened around the pad straps.

 

“Shit, I didn’t mean…I’m sorry man, I’m bad at talking sometimes. I meant like. Not _cool_.” Dean struggled to explain his thought process. “Just more than what I have right now. I’ve got no family to defend, no _lineage_ or anythin’. I’m just a scrappy, mouthy shit. But you’ve seen me fight. Think about it man, that’s just how I tangle when I have a petty fuckin’ _grudge_. I’ve never...crap, I’m doing this all wrong.” Dean grunted, tugging at a handful of his light-colored hair in frustration. He tried to collect himself while Roman just stood there, waiting. “ _Look_ , I’m not trying to be offensive. Ain’t my intention an’ I’m incredibly sorry if I’m comin’ off that way. I’m…I know your dad offered you to me as an assist that Brock won’t see coming. But this fight _I_ picked is totally pointless. There’s no angle to it at all, it’s literally just ‘ _Crazy Guy Wastes Time And Gets Paid To Do It_ ’.”

 

“You can’t be _that_ hard up for money, man. I refuse to believe that. You’re one of the top guys in this company.” Roman pointed out.

 

Dean chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s not about the money, Reigns. And it’s sure as shit not about my prowess or defending anything. It’s…” Dean trailed off, starting up a tempo on his collarbone.

 

“It’s…?” Roman prompted him after a minute or two, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I got this…this _issue_ with standing still. I have a lot of nervous energy to expel. Dunno’ what the normal amount is, but I can say with confidence that I’ve got a _lot_ more than normal. I thought that going after the big guy would help work through a little of it.” Dean tried to sound nonchalant. “Til’ Rollins is all better and I have him to throw around again.”

 

“You really know Rollins, huh?” Roman was watching him closely. “You’re always scrapping with him and you guys still work well to-”

 

“ _No_ we _do not_.” Dean gritted out. “We used to. We do not anymore. End of discussion.” He cracked his neck, hearing the satisfying _pop_ in his ears as he rotated his head. Roman busied himself with adjusting the pads on his hands. “Look, I don’t know how _up to date_ your dad kept you. I’m assuming you ain’t seen the footage from the night Rollins broke us up.” Dean said by way of apology, knowing that being gruff and moody wasn’t really going to do either of them any good.

 

“No, I didn’t look for it or anything. Should I?” Roman asked quietly.

 

“ _Fuck_ no. That was just the last time I fought for something I _believed_ in, y’know? I thought Rollins and I would be partners forever. We went through hell and high water together. And he kind of…well, look, right now ain’t the time for a sob story about my commitment issues, alright? My offer is on the table if you want it. I’ll gladly toss myself at Lesnar, I’ll fight harder than I’ve ever fought before. I don’t want your ass gettin’ a beatdown because you ain’t had to do this before.” Dean held up a hand when Roman opened his mouth. “Just think on it for a while. Talk to your pops, _he’s_ the guy that threw your hat in with ‘The Lunatic’. Even if the answer is no, that’s okay. I’ve got weapons and I’ll use ‘em to cripple Lesnar so you can have the last blow hopefully without getting yourself hurt.”

 

“Why, though? Why would you...?”

 

“I don’t need this victory. _You_ do. Your family does.” Dean said bluntly. “I don’t need jack shit from Lesnar except a huge, angry opponent who will help when it comes to killing time.” He cleared his throat. “This fight is a terrible idea. For anyone, really. Brock ain’t a merciful dude. I’ve dealt with worse than him, but _you_ haven’t. So I’ll take the brunt of his bullshit.”

 

“You’re not really answering my question, Ambrose.”

 

“It’s important that you have something to fight for.” Dean reached forward and began undoing the target pad straps on Roman’s hands. “How often do you fight, and what is it for?”

 

“I’ve never been in a real fight in my life.” Roman replied honestly. “In high school I would push the other jocks around. That’s it though. Kid stuff, we weren’t exactly throwing punches.”

 

“Ground up, huh? Alright. We’ll start with evasion.” Dean grunted, snapping the straps into place around his own hands.

 

…

 

Roman was from a long, proud, downright _prestigious_ line of athletes. He would never stop being impressed by his family’s dedication to whatever they set themselves to.

 

But when his father told him he was going to fight _Lesnar_ one way or another, his heart sank to his shoes. He had been hoping to break into the business, yes, but maybe in a less… _drastic_ manner. This was a suicide mission and it confused Roman to no end, the notion that his father was totally willing to hang the family hat on Roman’s performance in something he’d never officially _done_. Oh certainly, he’d wrestled before. Growing up in his family practically _guaranteed_ it.

 

It was different when it was personal. Hearing what Brock said about his family, what _Heyman_ said about his family lit Roman’s fuse. He’d agreed to his father’s plan without a second thought at the time, raring to defend his siblings, his cousins.

 

Now, laying on his back on the mat gasping for breath, he was a little concerned with himself. Did he have the ability? _Absolutely_. Was he going to be able to keep it together so he could win? Maybe not so much.

 

Ambrose growled, seeming exasperated. “You need to conserve your energy, man. Maybe switch up your workout for endurance, do some more jump rope.” He suggested, plopping down beside the dark-haired man.

 

Roman nodded, too tired to do much of anything else.

 

“The good news is that Brock is a glass fuckin’ cannon. All it takes is one _damn_ good shot to rock him, and then if you don’t let up…” Dean punched his palm, “ _Boom!_ You have anythin’ in football that could be good for that? It's easier to re-purpose instead of go flat-out new.”

 

Roman blinked up at the ceiling while Ambrose rattled on, not really paying attention to what he was saying. The fight was less than a week away and his confidence continued to wane even as he doggedly trained with Dean.

 

“Hey, d’ya think when you win I could hold your arm up?” Ambrose asked. He always spoke in absolutes and it made Roman feel just a tad better. _When you win, when Brock loses_. “Kinda’ like how the ref does.” Dean had done a complete one-eighty as far as his attitude went once he realized that Roman wasn’t some dumb lug. The thinner man seemed almost _happy_ to teach Roman, weirdly enthusiastic about passing along his techniques. Which leaned more towards the _street fight_ side of things, but any port in a storm as far as Roman was concerned. Someone who would bad mouth his family didn't deserve anything above a good old-fashioned ass beating.

 

“Sure, why the hell not.” Roman managed to shrug while still on his back. “Could be cool.”

 

“Badass.” Dean had a smile that could disarm a drill sergeant, Roman was certain. It was rare, but when he _did_ smile he could light up the room.

 

“Oh, I talked with my dad about you training me.” Reigns said a little while later, as Dean was running the ropes.

 

“Was he pissed?” Ambrose panted, nearly slipping on the mat and taking a second to regain his balance before he was off again.

 

Roman shook his head, putting his hands on his hips. “Nah, it was kinda' weird. He seemed excited about it. Said I could learn a lot from you.”

 

“That's _so_ cool, oh wow. Sika thinks I'm smart.” Ambrose draped himself over the middle rope, his eyes wide in delight.

 

“He doesn't get why you would sacrifice your opportunity to beat Brock, but he's happy all the same.” Roman clarified.

 

“I _told_ you, man, it's not personal for me. It's just me bein' bored.” Dean reached out and rumpled Roman's hair, the gesture rough but oddly fond. “You're going to do great.”

 

“Do you actually think that? Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?” Roman asked, furrowing his brow when Ambrose slid out of the ring to stand in front of him.

 

Dean took his shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. “Not _only_ do I think you're gonna' beat him, I think you're gonna' beat him to within an inch of his life.” He searched Roman's eyes, doubtless seeing the fear that Reigns tried so hard to conceal. “Why do you think you're not going to beat him?”

 

“It's not that I think I won't beat him. I know it's going to be difficult and there's so _much_ riding on me to beat him. I'm...I guess I'm nervous.” _Understatement of the century_. Every time Roman thought about getting in the ring for _real_ , in front of all those people...

 

“You've got this, man. I swear. As long as I'm still pullin' breath into my lungs, you're not losing this fight.” Dean promised, extending his hand. Roman shook it after a minute, feeling a tiny bit better. Ambrose always seemed to know just what to say when it came to reassuring him. Roman was incredibly grateful for the weird opportunity he had been granted. Training with 'The Lunatic' was definitely a once in a lifetime kind of experience.

 

There was a bruise under Dean's eye from a punch gone wrong earlier in the week. Roman had floored him with the shot, apologies already pouring out of him as he crouched beside the other man. Ambrose had looked rattled for a minute before accepting a hand back up. “ _Holy shit, why didn't you_ _ **tell**_ _me you could hit?!_ ” He'd scolded Roman, “ _we could have been working on_ _ **that**_ _instead of these speed drills! C'mon, hit me again! Let's go Reigns, time's a-wastin'!_ ” He seemed ecstatic, he was _definitely_ the only person Roman had met who was excited about getting punched in the face.

 

Once Dean figured out he could _punch_ , he of course had to build a specific move around it. Roman privately thought it seemed kind of goofy, but he couldn't deny how badass it looked when it worked. Aim with his left hand, use the momentum of his hip rotation to add a little extra heat behind it, land on his feet without hurting himself. They practiced it over and over until Roman was pretty sure he could have done it in his sleep, both of them ending up laying on their backs on the mat panting hard.

 

Dean held out a fist to him and Roman tapped his knuckles against the other man's, turning his head to the side to catch Ambrose's grin. “ _You're gonna' do great_.”

 

…

 

Dean's ears were ringing almost loud enough to drown out the roar of the crowd. There had been an explosion of pain at the base of his neck about two suplexes back and that's when the nausea kicked in. Everything was going wrong, _where_ was Roman? He had swung with all his might, Barbie whistling through the air in his hands and Lesnar had _somehow_ dodged the blow. Dean had been graced a back full of steel chairs as the prize for his insolence, and now he slumped in his corner with a very angry, _very_ pink Brock standing over him.

 

For some reason _KONGOS_ wouldn't get out of Dean's head, the opening accordion lick for _Come With Me Now_ adding a little extra crazy to the clanging in his ears. _I've wasted time, I've wasted breath, I think I've thought myself to death_.

 

But he wasn't about to give up. Oh no, hell no. Ambrose intended on making Brock work even _harder_ for this victory. Brock was _pouring_ sweat, furious and pawing at his own face as he tried to keep his temper under control. Heyman was _shrieking_ from ringside as always, Dean could feel the impacts of his hands on the mat as he attempted to leash his beast. Something else, though. There was a violent bump that came from _beneath_ Dean, beneath the canvas, right before Lesnar hoisted him back up across his shoulders.

 

_I was born without this fear, now only this seems clear. I need to move, I need to fight, I need to lose myself tonight_.

 

Dean swung wildly at Brock's head, knowing that if Lesnar landed that F5 there might not be anything left in him to get back up. He managed to flail free, scramble away while Brock was off balance. Dean rolled out of the ring with Brock hot on his heels. His foot caught on _something_ , the apron maybe, and he sprawled forward, his head cracking off the steel steps. The arena faded in and out around him as Dean bit down on his thumb, hard enough to hear the _crunch_ of his skin giving way.

 

_Confused what I thought for something I felt, confused what I feel for something that's real._

 

Brock's huge form was suddenly dripping sweat on his face and Dean found it in himself to wrinkle his nose in disgust, to roll up into himself. Brock sneered, one large hand grabbing the back of Dean's neck and hauling him upright. Dean made himself dead weight, laughing breathlessly when Brock struggled to keep him standing.

 

Something, _someone_ hit Ambrose from behind, the shock hurting more than the actual blow from the chair. He tumbled to the floor again, not sure if this was the last time. A familiar cackle met his ears and Dean wondered if he was imagining things, if his brain was just filling in a few more painful blanks for him.

 

He didn't have very long to wonder as _another_ someone threw their body over his own, arms wrapped around his head to shield him from the next onslaught.

 

...

 

“You okay?” Roman panted in Dean’s ear, grunting when the chair cracked against the back of his ring gear. “Sorry about this mess, Rollins was waiting for me.”

 

“ _Both_ of you were under there? Shit, you coulda' passed me a few more chairs. Some assist _you_ were.” Ambrose sounded _trashed_.

 

“He had a sledgehammer, man.” Roman remembered the horrified second of realization he had when he saw the blunt weapon within arms reach of Rollins, the _oh my God_ before he was pulling himself under the crossbeams beneath the ring and engaging the other man with _extreme_ prejudice. “Are you okay?” Ambrose chose that moment to hiccup, blood and spit dribbling out of his mouth. Roman swore, wiping the mess away. “I’m gonna’ take that as a no.”

 

“Bit my tongue on one of the suplexes. What am I up to?” Dean raised his head, unfocused eyes looking for the signs that fans held. “ _Twelve_ , damn. That’s a pretty good number.” His head dropped back down, hitting the matted floor with a wet _thud_. His eyes rolled back in his skull, body shuddering underneath Roman.

 

“No no no, _Ambrose!_ ” Reigns said frantically, cursing himself for wasting so much time fighting with Rollins. If he had appeared when he was _supposed_ to, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. He got to his feet, catching the next shot from Rollins and tearing the chair out of the other man’s grasp. “ _You-!_ ” Roman seethed, tossing the chair back into the ring and leveling a Hogan-style finger point at Seth. His all-natural pythons may be a few inches shy, but he felt like it was the thought that counted. “ _You!_ ” Every word that came to mind at this point was _definitely_ not something pay-per-view friendly so Roman settled for grinding his teeth in a silent snarl. The crowded arena echoed the “ _YOU!_ ”, murmurs rising after the initial confusion as to what the hell was going on. “ _SUPLEX CITY!_ ” and “ _SHIELD!_ ” and “ _YES!_ ” chants began to circle, to duel.

 

Ambrose grabbed at one of the many empty pockets on the side of Roman’s pants, the battered man’s fingers scrabbling for purchase on Roman’s clothing. Roman hauled Dean up by his belt, Ambrose holding onto his arm even after he let him go. “What’re y’ _doin’_ here, Seth?” Dean slurred. “Didja’ come t’pologize? Huh, buddy?” The raw pain in Dean’s voice startled Roman. “Come t’say ya’ sorry, Seth?”

 

Rollins started laughing again. “ _God_ , you’re pathetic!” He chuckled, bouncing from one foot to the other with Lesnar at his side. “I came to take part in my favorite pastime. Kicking your ass!”

 

Roman felt Dean sag against him, like his last ounce of fight had petered out. “Who the hell are _you_ , anyway?” Lesnar asked Roman.

 

“He’s th’guy thas’ gunna’ pin y’ ass.” Ambrose said, pushing away from Reigns and blearily raising his fists. “His name’s Roman Reigns.”

 

Roman watched curiously as an odd expression crossed Brock’s face. Behind him, Heyman looked like he was about to burst. “I ain’t afraid of some _other_ shitty offshoot of that fuckin’ family tree.” Brock said finally, grinning. “C’mon Reigns, you want a one-way trip to Suplex City that bad?” He beckoned. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

Roman crouched warily. “I’ve got Rollins.” Ambrose grunted, not looking like he ‘had’ Rollins in the slightest. If anything he was already swaying on his feet, weaving a little as he struggled to stay upright.

 

Roman did the only thing he could think of, exploding from his crouch with his arms outstretched to catch Brock and Rollins at the thighs with his shoulders and knock them both down. “ _Move_ Dean!” He shouted, Brock’s clumsy fingers tangling in his long hair to jerk his head back at a painful angle. The burly fighter didn’t give Roman a moment of pause, clubbing him with a closed fist to the side of his head that knocked him against the barricade. Roman saw stars, hastily raking at Lesnar’s eyes to give himself some breathing room like Dean had showed him.

 

_No-Holds-Barred Street Fight it will_ _ **goddamn**_ _be_.

 

Ambrose practically fell on top of Rollins and was all over him like a bad suit, fists pounding into Seth’s neck and ribs at random. “ _Fuck_ you, sneakin’ around like a damn coward, with your _Daddy’s_ sledgehammer!” Dean apparently had forgotten about the whole _pay-per-view appropriate language_ thing, because he was swearing like a sailor when it came to Rollins.

 

Roman didn’t have much attention to spare for Ambrose. Brock was back on his feet, Roman still trying to shake the cobwebs from getting his head bounced off the barricade. Brock seized a handful of his hair again and Reigns was seriously regretting his last elastic snapping while he was duking it out with Rollins. Lesnar pulled him into an upright position to slap him across the face, that satisfied smirk the only thing Roman could focus on.

 

_For my family_.

 

Reigns caught Brock’s hand before it could connect again, debating momentarily on wrenching Lesnar’s wrist like Dean had demonstrated once or twice to stress out the tendons. Lesnar released his hold on his hair, winding back to take Roman’s head off. Roman’s free hand was suddenly full of wood handle, his fingers automatically gripping down on the bat while Ambrose full-on _shoved_ it against Brock’s leg. The barbed wire tore into Lesnar’s skin and Brock hollered angrily, lashing out at Ambrose with a kick to the head that knocked him flat.

 

Roman dragged the bat up Brock’s leg, still maintaining his hold on the other man’s dominant hand. “All I have to do is swing, big man.” Roman snarled, “One good swing and you’ll be out of a job. You really wanna’ play that game with me, Lesnar?”

 

“ _Fuck_ you.” Brock spat, barely getting the chance to raise his other arm before Dean grabbed it, forcing it back down. Ambrose looked like he was barely there, his eyes half-closed and essentially his whole _body_ wrapped around Lesnar’s arm.

 

Seth reared his ugly head, his nose appearing a little worse for the wear as he got to his feet and started towards the huddle of men with murder in his eyes and the sledgehammer in hand. Roman cast around frantically for a plan, a _fragment_ of a plan, really. Something, _anything!_

 

He pulled Brock close and then shoved him back quickly, using the larger man to knock Seth down. Ambrose went along for the ride, unfortunately, and Roman’s heart slammed into his throat when Rollins lunged back to his feet, that sledgehammer raised high over his head.

 

Roman didn’t really _think_ , he just dropped the bat and _moved_. Aim with the left, rotate his body into the motion. His fist connected with Seth’s jaw, the thunderous blow resounding through the arena.

 

Rollins stopped dead. Everything went silent aside from Brock’s heavy breathing. The sledgehammer slid free of Seth’s hands, dropping harmlessly to the floor. Rollins quickly followed, his body toppling like a rag doll. Roman realized (and he wasn’t sure if he was excited or horrified) that he’d just knocked the other man out.

 

Brock hauled himself back up, scrambling to climb into the ring. Fury bubbled in Roman’s chest like a living thing and he tipped his body back to _roar_ , laughing wildly when the crowd echoed the sound. Where was Suplex City now? Heyman cowered beside the ring and Roman stalked him, catching him by the scruff of his neck before he could slink away.

 

“If I _ever_ hear that you've spoken poorly of my family again, I will make you goddamn _regret_ it.” Roman snarled, releasing the advocate immediately afterwards to focus solely on Lesnar. Brock had one of the many chairs in his hands, looking wary. Reigns sauntered around the ring, scooping Barbie back up. Dean _somehow_ was halfway upright, clinging to the apron like his life depended on it. Roman tousled his hair on the way by and Ambrose _arched_ up to his touch, snapping his teeth playfully at Roman’s hand.

 

“It’s up to you now, Reigns.” He said, resting his face on the side of the apron. “All up to you. Y’ got this, big dog.”

 

_Big dog_.

 

“You need to be with me, who's gonna' lift my hand when I win?” Roman asked.

 

Dean nodded slowly, raising his eyes to stare at Lesnar. “I'll make it up there. Promise.” He tapped Roman's fist with his own. “For your family, man.” He sounded exhausted.

 

Brock skittered as far back as he possibly could without dropping out of the ring again, holding the chair like a shield. Roman had no problem waiting, tapping the sole of his boot with the bat and leaning against the ropes with just a _hint_ of insolence in his posture. He liked to think he'd learned a thing or two about pushing buttons from Ambrose, and he was not disappointed as a second later Brock charged at him with the chair.

 

Barbie met the chair with a ringing impact, the metal object ripped from Lesnar's hands by the force of the swing. Brock was left weaponless at the mercy of a young man fresh out of developmental, crafted by 'The Lunatic' himself and carrying the honor of his family.

 

Roman hoped that Brock at least realized the error of his ways before being rocked by another _perfect_ Superman Punch. Roman straddled Brock's chest, pinning his arms down with his knees and delivering shot after shot to the other man's jaw. “ _Keep my family's name_ _ **out**_ _of your damn mouth!_ ” Roman shouted in Brock's face, his final punch snapping Lesnar's head to the side with a jerk of finality.

 

The arena was on its feet at the beginning of the beatdown, boos overwhelmed by steadily rising cheers. Roman pulled himself up and threw his head back for another roar, this one triumphant instead of angry. The Beast lay unconscious at his boots, his _advocate_ probably still cringing in fear by the ring post. Roman turned on his heel to grab Ambrose's arm and easily pull him into the ring. “Take what's yours, Ambrose.” He ordered, Dean stumbling forward to pin Lesnar.

 

The three-count was called, the bell rung, and Ambrose was abruptly hugging Roman's legs. Reigns laughed and dropped the barbed wire bat so he could drag Dean to a semi-standing position and hug him for real. “You did it, Roman!” Dean yelled over the crowd, slamming his forehead into Roman's shoulder. “Holy shit, you did it. Wow.” He said a little quieter.

 

“ _We_ did it.” Roman replied firmly, tugging Dean's chin up so he could see his eyes. “ _We_ , Ambrose.” He wasn't sure if he would ever stop smiling, especially when Dean slowly smiled back. True to his word, Ambrose hoisted Roman's arm high, almost toppling with the effort. Roman grabbed his wrist, effectively raising _both_ their arms. “This wouldn't even have happened if you hadn't taken me under your wing, man. Thank you.”

 

…

 

Dean closed his eyes and just basked in the adoration for a minute. He didn’t _need_ it, but _damn_ was it good to have when he was walking wounded. He palmed the back of Roman’s head, fingers running through that thick mane of hair. Roman hadn’t stopped smiling, his whole face lit up with joy as he kept his hand raised.

 

Roman’s dad was helped over the barricade by security and the older man climbed into the ring, raucous cheers starting up as people began to realize who he was. Sika, to Dean’s surprise, caught both men in a tight hug while saying “ _my boys!_ ” over and over. “I’m so proud of you Roman. Thank you, Dean, for keeping my son safe.” He said quietly, making Ambrose tear up a little. Roman didn’t look much better, nodding and quickly rubbing at his eyes when his father released them.

 

“Thanks for believing in us, Dad.” Roman said, the sincerity in his voice hitting Dean like a punch to the gut. He didn’t have very long to focus on the feeling because Reigns was hugging him again, his dad wrapped around the outside of the embrace in another hug of his own. “Thank you, Ambrose.” Roman pressed their foreheads together. “Thank you so damn much.”

 

Dean closed his eyes again, not able to handle the unchecked affection in Roman’s gaze. “Anytime, man. S’what I’m here for.” He mumbled, his shoulders drooping as his body realized that the fight was over. _You can stop now, Dean_. Roman would leave, they had accomplished what they set out to do and that was it. _You can stop now._ Dean abruptly felt nauseous again, his knees starting to shake under him. He grabbed frantically at Roman’s shoulders, his fingers useless and clumsy as everything slowly dissolved into numb tingling.

 

“ _Dean!_ ”

 

…

 

Ambrose had taken a hellish beating at the hands of Lesnar, twelve suplexes and more. Roman felt like an idiot for expecting him to walk out of the ring.

 

Dean looked dazed as he was secured to the backboard, blue eyes unfocused and fingers twitching wildly at his sides.

 

Sika’s hand landed on Roman’s shoulder. “Go with him, son. He needs you.” He shrugged when Roman looked back at him. “I can manage this part. Be with your partner now. He’s used to being alone. Let him know he isn’t anymore.” His dad gave him a knowing smile and Roman swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

 

“ _He has a concussion_.”

 

Roman had wanted to say _no shit_ , but he figured that would be bad form.

 

Ambrose had a death grip on his hand. He’d seemed surprised when Roman walked into the exam room, when Roman had taken his hand and squeezed it tight.

 

A concussion in this company could be a death sentence and Roman sincerely doubted that this was Dean’s first one.

 

“ _He’ll need supervision._ ”

 

Again, Roman wanted to say _no shit_. Dean’s jaw had tightened and he’d begun to protest, “ _I’m not some idiot kid, I can take care of myself._ ”

 

“ _I’ll stay with him_.” Roman had stated firmly, feeling Dean’s eyes trying to burn a hole through him. “ _He’s my partner_.”

 

Later that night Ambrose leaned his face against the car window and huffed out a loud sigh. “M’ sorry about all this, man.”

 

“What the heck are you apologizing for?” Roman asked, tapping at the screen of the GPS. “I’m lucky I’m not identifying your body at a freezer after _that_ fight.”

 

“M’ sorry about Rollins. I didn’t…I figured he was still out of commission for _weeks_.” Dean fidgeted in his seat. “Thank fuck he didn’t have room to swing under the ring.”

 

“You can’t really be blamed for that maniac’s actions, man.” Roman finally got the GPS to work, punching in his address.

 

Dean chuckled, the noise forlorn. “I don’t know why the hell _you’re_ the only person to figure out that I ain’t as unstable as I’m supposed to be. It’s weird.”

 

“In a good way or…?”

 

“Yeah. In a good way. In my kinda’ way.” Dean settled down in his seat, fingers tapping away at his kneecaps. “Where we goin’, anyhow?” He asked curiously.

 

“My apartment.” Roman cleared his throat. “Is there anything at your place that you need as far as tonight goes?”

 

“Nah, I’ve got a fresh set of clothes and my toothbrush in my gym bag. You sure you want me in your apartment though? Don’t wanna’ scare off any roommates or significant others.” Ambrose seemed legitimately worried.

 

“I live alone, you’re fine.” Reigns answered dismissively, giving his apartment a mental once-over and hoping he hadn’t left his boxers in the bathroom again. _I get so damn lazy_ , he scolded himself, not noticing how quiet Dean had become until Ambrose coughed awkwardly.

 

“You don’t have any roommates or anything? That’s wild man, I don’t think I’ve ever lived anywhere by myself.” Dean twiddled his fingers. “Have you always lived on your own?”

 

“Since moving out, yes.” Roman shot Dean a curious look. “Why?”

 

“It’s just kinda’ strange to me is all. You have a big family though, so I can understand wanting your own space.” Dean reasoned. His back straightened up, as if he’d remembered something. “Oh! Shit! That thing you did during the match! The yell thing!” He said excitedly, bouncing in place for a second. “What the hell was that?! It was _awesome!_ ”

 

Roman laughed at Dean’s sudden enthusiasm. “I dunno’ man. I just felt like I needed to yell, so I did.”

 

“And _Barbie_ , I can’t believe that shit! Just whackin’ that chair outta’ the park like Babe fucking Ruth. I’m…shit, I would have popped a boner if I’d had the presence of mind.” Dean teased, his tongue poking between his teeth as he grinned. “We done right by Mick, Funk, _and_ your family, s’ all that matters.” Dean wriggled in his seat. “What are you gonna’ do from here on out? I’ve got the feelin’ that you may have a future in this company, y’know?”

 

“I was thinking I would stick with you. If they’ll let me, of course.” Roman deliberately kept his expression bland, his eyes focused on the road. He heard a quick, jerky intake of breath from the man beside him and Dean fell silent again.

 

“W…Why though?” Ambrose asked softly after a good five minutes had passed.

 

“I thought we worked well together. I’d like if you could keep teaching me.” Roman replied simply. “If the higher-ups permit.”

 

“I dunno’ if I’m ready for another partner, Reigns.” Dean said hesitantly. “I…It’s got nothing to do with you, okay?”

 

“Give me a chance, Ambrose. I promise I’ll work hard.”

 

“I ain’t worried about your _work ethic_ man, I’ve seen that’s through the roof.” Ambrose protested. “After Rollins, I just don’t know if I should do partners anymore.”

 

“I can help with that. Superman Punch is his Kryptonite.” Roman didn’t expect the _explosion_ of laughter from Ambrose.

 

“Oh my God, I totally forgot--that was fucking _insane!_ You got four feet of air, I swear you did! Fuckin’ legendary, if nobody got a picture of you mid-swing I’m hiring a professional photographer. Hit hard and fuckin’ _often_ , Roman Reigns!” Dean rambled, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I wish you’d been in the Shield man, definitely could have used you in a few fights.”

 

“I’m here now, man. Might as well put me to work, right?” Roman asked while he parked the car.

 

The way Dean’s face scrunched up in thought gave him a little bit of hope.

 

…

 

Someone _wanting_ to work with him, wanting to prove themselves to him, was foreign to Dean. He was pretty sure that this ‘letting his brain heal’ business was just a plot to get him to trust Reigns. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except for the fact that he was _bored_ and it was working, damn it.

 

After the third day on Roman’s couch, sitting in the air conditioning with the blinds closed, Dean felt like he was going to start foaming at the mouth. While he was brushing his teeth he debated staggering through the apartment with the toothpaste all over his mouth, making zombie noises. But no, he was an adult. Probably a bad idea. He rinsed his mouth out and wiped the toothpaste foam away. His fingers started up a tempo on the sink and he stood there, staring at himself in the mirror.

 

The bruise under his eye had been replaced by a few scrapes, his tongue still a little sensitive from how hard he had bit down on it. Dean sighed, checking his eyes like the trainer had told him. His pupils continued to react fine to the light. Dean knew he was a lucky bastard, getting out of that fight with nothing but a concussion and some nicks. The base of his neck was still more than tender and that worried him to an extent. Mostly because he couldn’t really _see_ it to monitor the healing process.

 

Ambrose trotted down the hall to Roman’s room, knocking on the door before pushing it open. “Hey Reigns, I need you to check my neck real quick.”

 

Roman groaned, obviously still half-asleep as he nodded and wriggled a little closer to the edge of his bed. “M’kay, c’mere.”

 

Ambrose ducked down, expecting Roman to sit up and take a look. Instead, he felt a _mouth_ press to the skin just below the area that was painful, the sensation making him freeze.

 

“There’s a bruise, but m’sure y’ already knew that. S’okay, I fixed it.” Roman waved a hand, flopping back down onto his mattress. “Still sleep time, Ambrose. Shh.”

 

Dean touched the back of his neck, his mouth slightly open. _What the fuck_. “Roman did you just…?”

 

Roman grabbed Dean’s arm, dragging the other man into an awkward, almost horizontal position in the bed beside him. “Shh, sleep.” Roman mumbled, clumsily petting over Dean’s mop of curly hair.

 

Dean knew this was stupid, that Roman was out of it and didn’t even know what he was doing. But that didn’t stop him from relaxing a fraction in the other man’s grip. And then a fraction more. “Reigns, y’need t’ let me go.” He said quietly after Roman made no move to release him.

 

Roman growled, sounding sulky. “Nuh.” He opened one eye to glare at Dean. “No way. Some other guy did that before.”

 

Dean stiffened. “Well I mean, that was more like he threw me in the trash, honestly.” He tried to smile, tried to make it a joke like it didn’t still hurt.

 

Roman curled up around Dean, nudging his face into Dean’s chest. “Not gonna’ happen again.” He slurred confidently. “I’ll kick his ass.”

 

Dean snickered. It was easier than crying. “I bet you will.”

 

“Seriously.” Roman propped himself up, looking a little more alert. “I’ll kick his ass.”

 

“You haven’t even seen-”

 

“I don’t need to.” Roman huffed. “I’ve worked with you. You _trained_ me.”

 

“Maybe I _am_ just as crazy as he says, man. Didja’ ever think of that?”

 

“I doubt it.”

 

Dean had promised himself that after Rollins, that was it. There was no more Shield, no more teamwork, nothing that could lead to him depending on someone and getting his body destroyed when they turned on him. Because he was _unstable_ , and that was why he had clung to Seth so tight. Seth wasn’t _crazy_ like him, Seth was smart and capable and miles less fucked-up. Dean might fight until his last gasp, but Rollins was the one who always pulled the trigger.

 

_Little brother_.

 

Dean hadn’t noticed the tears dripping down his cheeks, hadn’t meant to start crying. _Just another fucked-up tidbit_ , he supposed. _One more thing knocked loose_.

 

Fingers were wiping Dean’s tears away, brown eyes fixed on his own worriedly. “Ambrose, did I say something wrong? Didn’t mean to.”

 

“Nah, it’s just…it’s been a while since anyone had anythin’ nice to say to me. I’m _insane_ , you know.” Dean shrugged, waving his hands around to illustrate his lack of stability. “The ‘Lunatic Fringe’, the 'madman known as Dean Ambrose'. That’s me, a wild and crazy guy.”

 

Roman shook his head. “I don’t see that, man.”

 

“I’m touched, Reigns.”

 

“I _don’t!_ ” Roman insisted. Dean almost believed him. “Why would I lie to you? I’ve been upfront so far, haven’t I?”

 

…

 

“Mm, kinda’ wondering when you’re gonna’ dig the knife in between my shoulder blades, honestly.” Dean said, sounding totally serious. “How much more vulnerable do I have to be, man? I’m recovering from a concussion and you pulled me into your damn bed to _snuggle_. You’re a special brand of evil if you want me any lower than _this_.”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, man.” Roman groaned. “You’re lucky you’re concussed. I wanna’ give you the world’s baddest noogie for all the bullshit you’re spewing.”

 

“Kick the street dog while he’s down, huh? I see how it-” Dean never got to finish his sentence because Roman rolled on top of him, the larger man taking care not to rest _too_ much of his weight on Ambrose.

 

“I ain’t Rollins.” Roman said slowly. His hands found Dean’s in the sheets. “You hearing me, Ambrose? Do I have your attention?”

 

Dean nodded once.

 

“I’m _not_ Seth. I don’t think you’re crazy. Not by a long shot, okay? So put that shit to bed. You’re more than whatever he said you were.” Roman stated. “You can’t let that guy’s image of you become the only thing that matters. You’re _so_ much more than a shitty gimmick, Ambrose.”

 

“I hate that you make shit sound true. It’s just gonna’ fuck me up more.” Dean whispered.

 

“Ambrose _please_ listen to me.” Roman begged. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

 

“Don’t lie to me, Reigns. I swear to fuck, don’t you _fucking_ lie to me. Just tell me I’m shit, tell me I don’t deserve anything and that I’m messed-up in the head.”

 

“What the _fuck_ , Ambrose?” Roman wished his voice didn’t crack. “I’m…I mean Jesus man, what the fuck? No, I’m not gonna’ say any of that shit. Why would I?” Dean stared up at him defiantly. “ _Dammit_ Ambrose, come the fuck on.” When Dean just kept staring, Roman sighed heavily. “Okay, have it your way.” Pretending not to notice the defeated sag of Dean’s shoulders, Roman tucked his hair back behind his ears so he could actually _see_ what he was doing. “Oh yeah, this guy beneath me is _super_ fucked up.” Roman started, making sure he sounded as sarcastic as possible. “Yep, no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He’s all kinds of terrible.”

 

Dean snorted, shoving Roman’s chest. “You asshole.”

 

“Guy takes a king-sized _failed_ football player in as a favor to his dad, shows him the ropes so he can beat another huge shithead. What a _dick_ , that Ambrose guy. Making sure other people are as safe as possible, dealing with all his own problems in his own way. Goddamn, that no-good son of a bitch.” Roman couldn’t keep the grin off his face at this point. “That motherfucker, that-”

 

Dean leaned up and pecked him on the lips, stopping Roman mid-tease. “You’re doing it wrong, man.”

 

“I dunno’, I got a kiss out of it so I think I’m doing it right.” Reigns smirked, feeling very satisfied with himself. “If I keep saying things I don’t mean, will I get another one? Or should I say things I actually _do_ mean?”

 

“Like _what?_ ” Dean made a raspberry sound.

 

“Like this.” Roman pressed his mouth to Dean's collarbone, licking and gently nipping the area. He heard Ambrose's breath catch, felt the other man's fingers quickly wind into his hair. “ _You're worth it._ ” Roman whispered.

 

Dean groaned. “Reigns...”

 

Roman didn't bother to respond, continuing his way down Dean's chest. There were still small cuts and nicks on Dean's torso from the match and Roman took the time to kiss every one of them, loving the way Dean began arching himself up to his mouth. “ _You're not crazy._ ” 

 

“I am though, I am, he said I--” Ambrose tried to protest but Roman mouthed over a scrape at the edge of his boxers, iron taste filling his mouth and suddenly Ambrose's voice got _urgent_. “Oh no, _mmfuck_ , Roman, you...” Dean squirmed, his eyes wide when Roman pulled back to look. “I kinda' have...I mean I kinda' like...y'know.” Ambrose mumbled, tapping the spot on his hip. “S'good.”

 

“Oh?” Roman _bit_ down then, still gentle but not nearly as gentle as before. 

 

...

 

Dean gasped, fingers lacing together on the back of Roman's head and holding him still. “ _Oh_ fuck, yes, shit, Jesus Roman!” He cried, that pain warm and  _good_ in his stomach like it hadn't been for months,  _years_ . 

 

Roman carried on tormenting him with his mouth, teeth harassing Dean's already-battered skin. He didn't ask whether he was alright, didn't ask whether he was too rough, and Dean realized dimly that it was because Reigns  _trusted_ him. Reigns  _knew_ he would let him know if he went too far. 

 

Dean caressed Roman's hair, the gesture weirdly intimate for him even with the other man's mouth inches away from his  _very_ interested cock. “You dealt with pain kinks before, Reigns?” Dean asked boldly when he could think straight for a second.

 

Roman smirked against Dean's hip, tugging his boxers down. The wet, red-purple welt he left on Dean's skin seemed to speak for itself, and the way he took Dean's cock into his mouth without a second of hesitation spoke volumes towards  _other_ experiences.

 

“ _Fuck_ me, Roman goddamn Reigns.” Ambrose sighed, cupping Roman's cheek. “I can't even believe you're doing this right now, holy shit. I'm gonna' wake up any second.”

 

“You have wet dreams about me?” Roman asked curiously, pulling his mouth off Dean's cock for a second to pump his shaft lazily. He rumbled in his chest when Ambrose nodded, feeling a little embarrassed. “ _Good_.”

 

“Fuck do you mean, g- _oh_ Jesus--” Roman felt the need to display his approval with his throat, taking Dean all the way down to his base. Ambrose dug his fingers into Roman's hair, _feeling_ the satisfied moan Reigns let out around his cock. “ _Oh_ , you too? Roman you are so fucked, you are so fucking _fucked_.” Dean half-snarled, half-laughed as he _twisted_ his grip. Roman's whole body shuddered and Dean watched hungrily as Roman snuck a hand down to touch himself. “ _Fuck_ yes, Reigns, fuckin' fist your cock while you suck me off. Do it, _do it_ , please please.” Dean couldn't decide whether he was ordering or begging, but it didn't really matter because Roman was going to jerk himself off either way.

 

Watching the muscles in Roman's shoulders and arms shift and roll as he moved was a grounding experience for Dean. Roman could easily slam him against a wall, shit, he could probably put him  _through_ a wall. But here Reigns was between his legs, in the other man's apartment no less, in his own  _bed_ . Making everything good and okay and not broken, not  _crazy_ at all. Even with the pain singing under his skin, the throb of bruises old and new, Ambrose was wholly content to grip Roman's hair and luxuriate in the sensation of knowing that Roman  _wanted_ him like this.

 

…

 

Dean looked like a  _vision_ in the weak morning sunlight, the blinds making shadow stripes across his chest and abdomen. The filth that poured out of his mouth  _certainly_ didn't hurt Roman's focus, the encouragement and the compliments on his technique only increasing Roman's need. He had himself propped up on one arm and his knees, the other hand working his cock with slow, even strokes as he just soaked in every hair-pull, every twitch of Dean's hips.

 

Ambrose suddenly shoved himself up, his hand groping hungrily over Roman's chest and then reaching lower at his belly to palm his dick. Reigns gasped at the change of angle and Dean began jerking him off quickly. “Want you to come.” Dean crooned, his body shivering. “ _Fuck_ , Roman, p-please, I want...fuckin'  _come_ for me, Reigns, need you to come, need you to come-” He panted, doubtless feeling the way Roman's cock twitched every time he said  _come_ . Dean's other hand gripped Roman's hair at the back of his head and dragged his mouth off his cock.

 

“Now, Dean? Huh? You gonna' come?” Roman growled, craning his neck to bite down _hard_ on Ambrose's shoulder. Dean cried out and Reigns felt him writhe under him and Dean _squeezed_ and Roman couldn't hold on any longer, grinding his hips down against Dean's as he came.

 

“ _Fuck_.” Dean sighed after a minute or two of silence, his breathless chuckle sounding too high in Roman's ears as he slowly licked his fingers clean. Roman watched wordlessly, still trying to catch his own breath. “You are something fucking else, Roman Reigns. Hell if I know what, but _damn_ you are something else.” Dean fell back against the mattress, groaning loudly. “Holy shit.”

 

“I'll take that as a compliment. Now, I think I had some important business to attend to.” Roman slid off to the side of Dean and pulled his back to his chest, ignoring Dean's drowsy protesting as he spooned the other man. “More sleep.”

 

“Hey...thank you.” Dean murmured.

 

Roman hushed him, starting to pet his hair again. “Sleep, Ambrose.”

 

“Seriously though, I mean-”

 

“ _Ambrose._ ”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [The song referenced: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5tDjYuqJRJQ ]


End file.
